


A Spider Deal

by CravenWyvern



Series: DS Extras [37]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Child Neglect, Night Terrors, Nightmares, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, headcanons galore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-25
Updated: 2019-03-25
Packaged: 2019-12-07 11:07:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18234050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern
Summary: Webber loves their friends, their family.No matter what.





	A Spider Deal

Everybody had nightmares.

They had dreams, too, but most of them had nightmares. 

Sometimes, Webber wondered if it was normal, to not want to sleep at night, to bicker over who would stand watch, to argue about the lack of sleep some of those they knew were going through, how it could escalate and they'd hide in their tent, listening at the yelling and hissing vulgar words shouted between people.

They knew it would be alright, in the end, and that it wasn't anyone's fault. Not sleeping made people cranky, and mean, and even Webber had days were they didn't want to talk or hang out with their friends, spider or otherwise. Sometimes they hid away, curled up and scratching at their bristly carapace, because they still didn't feel as alone as they wanted to and they could still hear all the yelling and swearing, even as far away from camp as they'd go.

It wasn't anyone's fault. The nightmares kept Webber up, they kept up Webbers friends, their family.

They didn't really know if it was supposed to be as normal as it was now. They don't really remember it being such a big thing when they had been younger, when they had been somewhere else, in the Before.

They don't really remember all that well. Once, they were told their memory was like Mister Wilsons; they could remember some things at one point, and at the next it would be gone from their head.

Webber didn't say anything about it, but they didn't believe that. Their remembering was better than Mister Wilsons, they were really sure of that, and they weren't trying to be mean about it.

It was just that they had an easier time recalling some things, like where the spider nesters were or where a Moose Goose had laid her nest; Mister Wilson was always forgetting that sort of thing. They didn't fault him for that. It was just the way it was.

Just like the nightmares. 

Their mandibles and limbs twitched, scratched at their face, sniffling quietly. The warm air of their small tent was stuffy, heated, but they still were shivering, fur bristled up, knees drawn up close and rocking ever so slightly.

Their nightmares were normal, and the fact they didn't like sleeping anymore, just like everyone else, was normal.

It was just the way it was. Nothing could change that.

They rubbed at their face, sniffing as their eyes all blinked slowly, out of sync, tearless and feeling a low sob rise in their throat.

And that was nobody's fault, no ones. Not their own, not their friends, not this place that was their home.

It would never be anybody's fault, ever.

Webber was super, super sure of that, forever and ever.

It was nobody's fault.

***

Once, they visited camp after a long few days sleeping with their nestmates.

Their friends called it spider farming, because Webber always came back with grass made bags of glands and meat and silk, but Webber didn't see it that way. They were a part of the nest, they helped clean it, helped spin new sections of silky webbing and clear out old, dusty disused ones, helped old spiders lag to their holes and then, in the morning, helped the drones clear the remains away, and that was where they gathered up what their friends needed. Sometimes there were attacks, rival spider nests or piggys or doggies, and when it was over and the warriors were dragging the spoils to the sleeping queen Webber would gather up the discarded bits, stuff them away to give to their friends.

They didn't need a lot, not when sleeping in a pile of spider friends, all listening to their queens deep, steady breathing, warm and protected. So they gave what they didn't want to the main camp, with their other, more human friends.

In their corner of the nest, dug deep in tunnels woven with silk, their own little niche held a few of their more prized possessions, gifts and toys and little bits and bobs they'd run their claws over in the dark of night, listening to the skitter as their spider family went about the usual business. 

The bag of rolled silk and packed glands, another of monster meat they knew the others didn't like, but would still use if things were bad, swung from their shoulders and bumped their sides. The churring of their little spider song was almost whistled, hopping back into camp and growing excited, and Webber couldn't wait to see their friends again.

Except, camp seemed really empty. 

Their steps slowed, quieting as all their eyes looked about, not noting anything out of the ordinary. No tents were destroyed, no chests smashed, it was just quiet save for the crackling of the fire.

Which was louder than usual. They already knew who'd they find as they made their way to the fire pit, limbs and mandibles twitching about in worry and concern.

Miss Willow was there, sitting with her head in her hands, very, very close to the high rising fire and its heady smoke, almost touching its flickering curls of flame. Webber stopped for half a moment, blinking their eyes in pairs, still looking about for anyone else, but besides her there was no one else.

They whistled, high pitched, to give their warning, and Miss Willow jumped, eyes jerking away from her fire before landing on them, and for a moment Webber tensed as recognition did not grace the woman's eyes.

And then they relaxed as she blinked and the glazed look went away, a small crooked smile turned up their way, and Webber knew then that it was alright.

“Hello, Miss Willow!” they chirped, hopping over and twittering, mandibles twitching as they watched the woman untense, shoulders falling. They fiddled with the bags on their shoulders, carefully slid them down, and looking up at Miss Willow they could see the bags under her eyes, the foggy look she still had about her, and they knew suddenly that she wasn't quite seeing them right. “...We brought back a bunch of stuff, cause we had too much to hold in the nest!”

“That's, that's pretty great, Webber.” She sounded tired, drawn thin, and Webber clicked, glancing around camp once more just in case.

“Where is everyone, Miss Willow?”

The woman face flashed, a different hard expression before falling away again, and after a moment she shrugged, a more crooked, wavy grin spreading on her face, and Webber noted silently that she was swaying a bit, looked more rough than usual.

“Don’t know, don't care.” She sounded like she did, and the woman's pale eyes turned away, sweeping about the camp. “All waiting in line at the touchstone, maybe. The old lady went out with the amulets too.”

Webber waited, and once they'd have felt nervous, in this situation. But they weren't, not anymore; it wasn't their friends fault, that these things happen, and they'd not blame any of them, no matter what.

“...She didn't want me to tag along.” Miss Willow let out a heavy breath, an exhale that wasn't just tired, and Webbers fur prickled at the thin hint of red hot rage they could hear, a dark tone creeping into their friends voice.

It was enough for them to spring into action.

“”Miss Willow, do you want to sit down?” Their voice stayed cheery, spider clicking and clacking as their limbs drew close and they kept themself from moving too quickly, walking up to take their friends arm in a gentle hold. “We can take care of the bags ourselves, it's okay!”

Miss Willow twitched, and her eyes were looking at something to the left, watching as the nothingness shivered and watched her back, before seeming to process Webbers words and turning a crooked smile back to them, looking more than just a bit foggy.

Her pale eyes were all glazed, and she smelled of fire and ash and…

Webber didn't mention the faint whiff of burned flesh, char now stuck anew in her clothing.

Whatever happened, it wasn't her fault, and they knew that with a certainty.

She didn't answer as they guided her back to the fire, just the dazed grin and lost look in her eyes, and Webber quieted their spider sounds, took a deep breath as they adjusted themselves, because their friend needed them now and they'd do everything they could to help.

Sometimes it was scary, especially when Miss Willow was more than just dizzy, when she had her lighter in hand and she was baring her teeth in a snarl, was looking every which way but not at them at all until the very end. Sometimes they didn't know what to do, and it was even scarier, when they had to hide.

But right now didn't seem like a scary time, so they ushered their friend, taller and bigger and older than them, back near the fire. A thought hit them then, and they turned to look up at her face, milky pale eyes wide and blinking pairs in sync.

“Do you want to sit in the fire, Miss Willow? We know it makes you feel better, and it won't bother us.”

Sometimes the others didn't like it when she did that. Webber knew why, but it was only her in camp right now so it was okay.

And the question seemed to cut the fog away, at least for a minute, and her glazed look landed on them before the small grin on her face spread to something else.

Not a total snarl, almost, but her eyes had jerked back to the fire and Webber squeezed her arm for a moment, reminded her that they were still there before patting her carefully with their claws and taking a small, measured step back.

“That sounds great, kid, that sounds real great.” She wasn't slurring her words, which was a good thing, and Webber chirped quietly, watching as she stuck her hands into the licking flames.

“We'll fold your clothes, Miss Willow?” It wasn't really a question, but Webber was being attentive, and knew the others would come back eventually. “We'll put it on the log right there, if that's okay?”

The woman didn't give them much but a nod, already pulling her shirt off her head and wiggling out from her skirt, eyes on the fire.

Some of the others were funny when it came to clothes, especially Miss Wickerbottom. When Webber stayed in camp too long, sometimes she'd try to make them wear things, to “protect their modesty”.

Webber didn't know what that meant, not even when they got older. And not even Wendy would tell them, just laugh in a funny, tense way and not meet their eye, which was kinda confusing.

They didn't need clothes for warmth anyway; they had their fur, and their carapace shell, and the bristle of a mane that puffed up on their shoulders, falling down their chest and back. Clothing was for the cold, so they didn't really know what this whole “modesty” thing was about.

A part of them tried to remember, from Before, but it never stuck with them. Once upon a time, they wore clothes, because someone put those clothes on them.

And now, they don't, because they didn't need to, not even when Miss Wickerbottom gave them dresses or tried to help them slip into pants or shorts.

...Well, sometimes they did, when playing dress up, but that's only when everybody else played dress up too.

Miss Willow didn't quite toss them her clothes, but she hardly seemed to care much as they bundled it all up for a moment, taking a step back as the fire flared at her presence. As she sunk down with a tense sigh, flames licking at her bared skin, Webber started to fold up her charred, burned smelling clothes, limbs helping to get them folded right.

Miss Willows voice rose up, quiet and shaky now, as they turned to deposit the folded clothes onto the log like they said that they would.

“She took away my lighter, an’ then…” Webber tilted their head, turned to look at her attentively.

Sometimes, their friends just needed to be listened to. Most of the time there was more than that, like guiding their friend into the fire and saying things that made sure she didn't worry at all about anything, but the listening part was very, very important.

“...Bernie got all ripped up. Couldn' do anything to help, and I was really trying.” Miss Willows eyes were closed, laying down in the fire now, having pushed and spread the rocks and logs to let her be more comfortable. Webber watched as the wood split and cracked, embers flung out to die in the packed dusty dirt, and realized what they should do.

“We'll find your lighter for you, okay?” It wasn't a good idea, not at all, but if it made Miss Willow come back to herself then it was a good enough one for Webber.

And they were here, at camp, right now. They'd be able to stop any fires if any started.

Miss Willow didn't do much to answer, but her face wiggled and she nodded, looked as if she was going to start crying. They backed up, looking to find a certain tent, and when they glanced back a moment they saw their friend curled up, hiding her face in her hands as the flames and fire bathed over her, as if trying to offer its own sort of comfort.

It wasn't her fault, Webber reasoned out. Bad things happen, all the time, over and over, and it wasn't Miss Willows fault.

Finding Miss Wickerbottom’s tent didn't take long, not with its size and odd structure, the larger make of it rectangular and towering over Webbers head. It was normal sized, to the others, but they've always felt so small compared to this tent.

Taking a glance around, just in case, and then Webber slipped inside, the faint traces of guilt rising in their chest as they twittered and whistled quietly.

There was a tiny library in here, one that they remembered still, passing by and looking up, up to the higher shelves books, maths and histories and social studies, and their claws twitched and fur bristled as they remembered all the lessons they've done in here, papers and their scrawling, broken handwriting.

Their claws wouldn’t work, not like in Before, and Miss Wickerbottom would sniff and sigh whenever they handed in their papers, a small shake of her head, and they'd feel guilty and ashamed and confused.

Mister Wilson tried to help, all the time. His claws were sort of like theirs, but not quite, and he had a hard time writing too, showing Webber his papers and scribbled books.

Webber didn't know what any of it ever said, and they were really sure none of it was English. When Mister Wilson tried to help in their independent written lessons, they'd sit quietly as he'd sound out what was written in Miss Wickerbottoms plain, easy to read handwriting as best as he could, and even then they didn't really have the heart to tell him that he was saying so many of the words incorrect.

Was it weird, to realize that Mister Wilson didn't know how to read but still pretended that he did?

Yes, yes it was. But they didn't say anything, because that would be mean and they were sure it really wasn't Mister Wilson's fault.

They started their search about the tent, feeling nervous about snooping into their friends stuff, but Miss Wickerbottom had taken away Miss Willows stuff and they had to retrieve it now, to make Miss Willow feel better.

Miss Wickerbottom took away a lot of stuff, a lot of the time. Webber carefully opened up a chest, eyed the colorful balloons and electric doodads and vials of sloshy black nightmare fuel, pages of scribbled chemistry notes, half of gibberish and half of formulas, other pages clearly ripped from a book, only the neatest of cuts and the faint, floating static feel of words they could not read, of nightmares and shadow stuff. There was half made things, and gems, and sharp, sharp stuff, razors and tweezers and other metal, stone things, and Webbers mandibles clicked and twitched as they tried to sift through the confiscated items carefully, not wanting to break something or hurt themself.

They couldn't find the lighter, but a plushy, ripped up thing caught their attention and with a whistle of triumph Webber carefully scooped up the remains of Bernie the Bear in all his ripped up stuffing glory.

Closing up the chest, holding Bernie close and eyeing him carefully, the rips and tears and all that white plush sagging from his wounds, Webber blinked all their eyes as they crooned to the bear.

“Hello, Mister Bernie sir! We're here to get you back to Miss Willow!”

There was no answer, which was normal, because Bernie the Bear didn't talk much anyway, and Webber held him close to their chest as they went back to searching for Willows lighter.

It took five minutes more for them to realize it wasn't here. Pulling away from looking under Miss Wickerbottoms bed, Webber laid their arms over the soft quilt and looked sadly at Bernie, set on the bed delicately and giving them a button eyed stare.

“...We think Miss Wickerbottom took it with her.” Their spider face dipped, an almost frown as their mandibles and limbs waved and twitched, saddened at this discovery.

But then they reached out and took Bernie's broken form, careful, gentle, and they sat back over the carpeted floor Miss Wickerbottoms tent had.

“But, we can still fix you up.”

They didn't have much silk on them, recently shearing and cleaning and spinning it off to give to the others, but carefully they held Bernie the Bear up, limbs twitching and curling as they tilted their head up, scratching through their bristly fur and hard carapace before finally twining and feeling their spider body react to what they wanted.

Spinning silk made them hungry, and kinda itchy, but they focused on sewing Bernie up, all eyes pinned to the tears and carefully using their extra limbs to finely start stitching him up, their claws keeping the plush still. 

They fixed Bernie up before, loads of times, sometimes with a regular old sewing kit, and sometimes not. Sometimes they even helped Miss Willow make other Bernies, like Bernie the Beefalo and Bernie the Pigman, or their favorite, Bernie the Spider. Those Bernies were nice, too, but Bernie the Bear was the best out of all of them.

Bernie the Bear saves people, like the others, but he also saves Miss Willow the most, so he was very special. Webber knew that very, very well.

Fastening up and adjusting one of Bernies button eyes, carefully checking over their stitching and tugging lightly on the plushies limbs, Webber twittered in satisfaction. Bernie the Bear was fixed now.

They couldn't find Miss Willows lighter, but maybe that was a good thing. Bernie wouldn't light anything on fire, unless he thought it would help Miss Willow, and if Miss Willow was already in fire then everything was okay.

Standing up, Bernie in their hands, Webber took one more look about the tent before hurriedly sneaking out. They didn't feel as bad now, snooping about, but they still didn't want to get caught.

The sun was high in the sky when they stepped out, carefully letting the tents door fall closed, and the fire pits smoke was still heavy and going straight up, thick and black in smokey curls. Miss Willow was still in the fire pit, curled up, and Webber hesitated a moment before approaching, standing on their tiptoes to see if she was awake.

They felt Bernie wiggle a moment in their hands and that prompted them to pat him on the head, twitter a bit as they tried to convey he needed to be patient. Bernie could still catch fire if he wasn't careful!

Miss Willow had to hold him to keep that from happening. 

With that thought in mind, Webber waited a moment, mandibles wiggling as they thought for a bit, before whistling a quiet spider sound.

Miss Willow didn't sit up, but they watched as she moved, rubbed her eyes as flames curled about her, like in a big warm hug.

Sometimes they wished they could hug fire like that. Maybe someday Miss Willow will teach them how.

“We found Mister Bernie, Miss Willow!” They held the bear up towards her, limbs twitching before pulling in close, and the woman was still for a second, as if she hadn't heard them, and then she sat up suddenly, embers and ash and charcoal falling from being caught in her hair as her wide, pale eyes found their own.

And then they landed on Bernie, and there was a storm of funny expressions on her face before splitting into a wide grin and Webber quickly handed over the plush as she practically lunged towards him. They had to scoot back as embers fell in bursts and sparks, the fire blazing as their friend hugged Bernie close to her chest, ducking her head and shaking ever so slightly.

It took them a second to realize it was both laughter and sobs, and Webber politely looked away, rubbing their arms and twitching their mandibles, knowing they did the right thing.

That scent of charred flesh and burned corpse death was gone now, seared away by the campfires own smoky smell, and Webber knew Miss Willow didn't smell it anymore too.

“Thanks, thank you.” Their friends voice was quiet, choked up, and didn't sound very lucid at all. She didn't even look up at them, curled up in her fire and hugging Bernie the Bear close to her bare chest, and Webber twittered and whistled quietly in answer, knowing she wasn't listening to them anymore.

Miss Willow probably didn't even know they were there, or that anything was there at all, only her fire and her bear, and that was okay. She was okay now, and that was all that mattered.

Webber glanced over to their discarded bags, having been forgotten, and then clicked deep in the back of their throat, the deep of their chest, and went about taking care of the supplies they had brought with them. The silk goes into one chest, bundled up and making sure it was all clean, and the purple meat went into one of the ice boxes, away from the one with jerky and old soup and tucked away vegetables, into the one that had bits of hound flesh stacked neatly inside.

The glands they took to another chest, with rocks and ash set inside with bundles of premade salves.

Glancing over at their friend, Miss Willow still hugging tight to Bernie, fire hugging her just as tightly, Webber twittered a second before sitting down, taking out the rocks and ash, empty and half empty jars of the medicine.

When everyone got back from the stone they'd be a bit sore and bruised, Webber knew. So they'll be helpful by setting things up for them. After making the salves, they decided they should try to make dinner, even if they weren't very good at cooking.

Maybe, if Miss Willow was feeling better then, they'd ask her to help too. That might help cheer her up a bit more.

So Webber chirped and twittered quietly to themself, as one of their friends rocked in the fire, comfort plush held close to her chest, and there was no more smell of death anymore, and that was alright.

Webber clicked, a low whistle. It was alright, and it was nobody's fault that whatever happened had happened, because it was done now.

It was done, and everything was okay again.

***

They found their robot friend out on their lonesome, once.

Mx. WX78 wasn't very talkative, or friendly, or really all that nice even, but Webber liked helping catch fireflies and bees and butterflies with them, and when they did that and had a lot to give to them Mx. WX78 sometimes would even let them go to their garden, look at all the weird plants they grew and listen to the buzz of their weird, special bee boxes.

They never were allowed to take back any flowers or even the net they used to catch bugs, but some days, when it was really warm and light out, the sun bright enough to almost burn their eyes, Mx. WX78 would hand them a jar of honey, all wrapped and tightly sealed with pretty flower designs sewed on, and tell them to leave immediately and tell no one, or else.

Sometimes the honey was different from the honey their other friends made; Webber couldn't smell things very good, but sometimes it was more orangey or cinnamony or clovery tasting. 

They don't remember much of Before, sometimes, but putting their claws into the sweet stuff and sucking on their fingers gave them a familiar, comforting feeling. They even shared with their spider friends, whenever they could, and a lot of the Queens they knew loved twittering and licking up what they offered, and it made Webber feel happy.

They kept the bits of fabric the jars had on their lids, and they whistled and told Mx. WX78, every time, that they loved it, because each time the wiggly colorful lines of each flower and bee and butterfly were getting more and more steady, more and more pretty. They told their robot friend that they wished they had such a steady hand, and that they practiced but it was very hard to even make a straight line sometimes.

And Mx. WX78 would click and all the gears in them would rumble and they would tell Webber that no one could ever get as good as the robot, no matter how much they practiced.

So Webber would then say that they'd want to be second best then, so everyone would know who was first just by looking at Mx. WX78’s work.

Then Mx. WX78 would glow, in a way that meant their robot friend would stand taller and steam would hiss from their joints, all their inner eye lights flashing, and Webber would twitter and whistle and know they said the right thing at the right time.

Today, however, it was raining.

Only a light drizzle, Webber padding through wet grass and puffing up their fur at the chill and the humidity, but they had heard Mister Wilson say that, by tomorrow, it would be thundering and have lots of lightning and that the spring floods would have arrived in all their wet, winter melted glory.

Mister Wilson didn't like spring that much, Webber knew. They remembered a time when he'd jump and dart for his tent when lightning striked, and they even remembered a time before that, when they had hissed and hid under the workbench as well because the clap of thunder was loud and growled and scary, more scary than almost everything they knew of.

And then Mister Wilson would help make them less scared, even as he was shaking and jumping with them, trying to tell them that it was all science, it all made sense and wouldn't hurt them too bad as long as they stayed safe.

His teeth would chatter and he'd scratch at his arms, claws clicking all the while, and Webber would suck in a breath and make themselves not as scared, because Mister Wilson was very, very scared of lightning and they had to help him.

And that's why, when they heard the loud, rolling wail of thunder above them and the sharp shatter of lightning connecting with nature, Webber didn't jump or startle or nothing.

They had their umbrella clenched tight in their hands, and a few of their eyes squeezed shut tight, but after a second they untensed and continued walking back towards camp, debating whether they wanted to skip or not in the wet grass and soggy mud.

It wasn't bad yet, they reminded themself. Tomorrow, it would be icky and sticky and cold, but today there was the long grass clinging to their claws and fur, tromping into small puddles and listening to the drizzle tap, tap on their umbrellas silk.

And then they head the telltale Zap! Zap zap! of one of their friends.

Webber twisted their gaze around, picked up their pace in quick almost hops, and the light springing out in shocks that disappeared just as quickly as begun lead them to the form of their robot friend, sitting, all alone, in the middle of the meadow.

The drizzling rain made funny thwumping noises on their metal shell, and Webber slowed to a stop as they realized their friend wasn't truly all alone.

The Mx. Lying Robot was with them, too, soggy and soaking in the mud, on its side.

“Hello, Mx. WX78! What are you doing in the rain with no umbrella for?” Webber twittered as they spoke, eyes blinking out of sync as they watched a huffing cloud of steam ease from their friends shoulders, the slightest of hisses and decompression and the metal frame sagged a bit.

WX78 didn't respond, silent, staring at the ground, and Webber bent their head to look too, just in case there was something there they were missing.

But they only saw mud, and shallow water puddles, and they clicked their mandibles, limbs twitching and waving as they looked back at their silent friend.

Maybe Mx. WX78 didn't want to talk right now. That was okay, Webber sometimes didn't want to talk either, but it was raining and they could see sparks darting about their friends limbs, the mud seeping up under Mx. WX78’s metal framework.

And Mx. Lying Robot was still on the ground, looking cold and sad and kinda muddy.

Webber stooped down next to the fallen toy, reached out and carefully picked them up. The mud oozed off as rain swept it away, and Mx. Lying Robot was limp in their claws, frowning and looking even sadder now.

They twittered, low clicking in their throat, and blinked all their eyes out of sync at Mx. WX78 for a moment, everything still silent besides the pitter patter of the light rainfall and the sparks and flashes from their robot friend.

“It's okay, Mx.WX78, we got them out of the mud!” They couldn't get as much cheerfulness into their voice as they wanted, and not hearing any response made their mandibles and limbs droop, the chill getting a bit colder now.

But they couldn't give up, not yet!

With a sudden surge of determination, puffing up their chest and holding Mx. Lying Robot close, Webber stomped those last few feet closer to Mx. WX78, firmly holding the umbrella out to cover them both.

Their robot friend was much bigger than them, and they were just barely able to get the covering over Mx. WX78’s tilted head, but the rain was averted now and after a moment, the dripping water falling away, around them, the sparks and shocks slowly faded away into a much nicer calm.

They watched as Mx. WX78 slowly, very, very slowly, raised their head, blank eye sockets turned to look emptily at them. A short hiss and cloud of steam eased from their joints, along with the quiet ticking and creaking of gears they could just barely hear, and Webber held out Mx. Lying Robot with a spider grin, careful to not drop toy nor umbrella as rain continued to splash around them.

“See? They're alright now!”

All Mx. WX78 did was angle their head to look at the toy, nothing else, and Webber felt like faltering for a moment, limbs drooping, before they shook themself, fur puffing up as they drew in a deep breath.

“An’ the rain’ll stop soon too! There's a storm coming tomorrow, but it's still today right now so we're a-okay!”

After a moment of silence, Mx. WX78s head tilting back down, the steam easing away, Webber shuffled their feet, still holding Mx. Lying Robot out to their friend.

“Are...are you okay, Mx. WX78?”

They didn't get to see Mx. WX78 all that often really. The robot didn't like staying in camp, and Webber knew they didn't really make friends or even be nice to anybody, and that just made sure that everyone told Webber to not bother them too much.

Miss Wickerbottom told them that the robot just wanted to be alone and left it at that, but once Miss Willow had told them that, if they weren't being careful and didn't pay attention, then Mx. WX78 would squash them for just saying the wrong thing by accident!

Webber didn't believe in that, not at all, didn't really want to, but when they asked Mister Wilson and Mister Maxwell about it the two men had only given each other looks and then tried to distract Webber with other things, like helping with fishing or gardening or making lunch.

When they had asked Mister Wolfgang, he had told them that if Mx. WX78 ever did try that, then he'd crush their robot head instead! That had distressed Webber so much that they had almost cried, because they didn't want their friends to hurt each other, and they didn't want to think about one of their friends hurting anyone so badly that they'd just die!

Mister Wolfgang had apologized after that, and very solemnly swore he'd never hurt anyone like that, not unless they really, really deserved it.

Webber had told him that Mx. WX78 would never do something so horrible as hurt people, that they were really sure of that, because friends don't hurt friends and Webber was friends with Mx. WX78, right?

The big strongman had given them a funny look, but he said that they were right, friends don't hurt friends.

Friends were not supposed to hurt friends. Webber knew that, very very much, and they knew Mx. WX78 would not hurt them.

Because they were friends.

There was the squeaky creaking of metal against metal and grinding cogs and gears, the hiss of steam, and Webber watched as the robot slowly raised its hand, head still bowed, and pointed directly at Mx. Lying Robot.

“IS THAT A LIAR?”

Webber tilted their head, blinking their eyes as they looked down at the toy in their hands. There was something funny, different, about Mx. WX78s voice, and their fur prickled nervously.

“Well, we were told their name was Mx. Lying Robot, so we think they do?”

Mx. WX78 was shaking their head, slow, side to side with the creak of metal, and no lights flashed on their face, only empty darkness and the rain falling quietly around them.

“HE IS HAL. HE IS MY FRIEND.”

Webbers mandibles twitched, limbs flicking as they looked down at the toy in their claws.

“Oooh. Sorry, Mister Hal! We were calling you the wrong name…” Webber held out the toy, still keeping a stable grip on the umbrella, and Mx. WX78s blank eyes stared through them. “Well, if he's your friend, Mx. WX78, then he wouldn't lie to you! Cause lying’s bad, and friends don't lie to each other!”

Mx. WX78 was still, silent, for a really long while, but Webber continued holding Mister Hal out, stubborn and sure of themself.

Something was kinda off, and sorta weird right now, because Mx. WX78 never acted this way around them, never ever, but it was really quiet and they weren't moving from all the mud and water stuck to their metal legs and bottom, didn't even seem uncomfortable in the soggy grass or nothing, and it made Webber grow more and more worried.

Mx. WX78 must not be feeling good, so they'd do everything in their power to help them feel better!

“...HE SAID SOMEONE STOLE SOMETHING FROM ME. BUT THAT IS NOT TRUE.” Mx. WX78 raised their head a bit more, and Webber blinked all their eyes out of sync, and it was even weirder cause their robot friends voice sounded different, not as stiff and blank like they were supposed to sound. “I AM MISSING NOTHING. I TOLD HIM THIS, BUT HE WILL NOT LISTEN. HE WILL NOT SHUT UP.”

Webber stiffened as they watched Mx. WX78s hands shake in the mud, curl into fists, and the toy in their hands didn't offer an explanation when they glanced at it, limbs drawing in close.

“Maybe, uh, maybe Mister Hal is mixed up? Or maybe it's something you forgot about, or don't remember losing-”

“NO!”

Webber jumped, almost dropped both toy and umbrella, and an almost explosive hiss of steam rose from Mx. WX78s shaking frame, the grinding gears in their barrel chest clicking loud and badly in the rains quiet.

“HAL IS LYING TO ME! I AM MISSING NOTHING, NO ONE HAS EVER STOLEN FROM ME, I HAVE EVERYTHING I NEED!” It was weird, to hear Mx. WX78s voice boom out of them, the usual droning sound gone, long gone, and Webber was trembling a bit now, wondering if they should leave.

Because even though friends don't hurt friends, sometimes they forget that sort of thing. It wasn't anyone's fault, Webber knew that, but they also knew they couldn't stay with their friend if said friend wasn't seeing them right, if they were seeing things that weren't really there.

For a moment there was a shaky silence, louder than ever, and Mx. WX78 sat still, their outburst leaving a gaping quiet in its place.

And then they rose their hand again, covered in mud and dripping with rain water, and the dull clinking of them poking their own chest, the faint hollow sound before hearing the gears and wires and other sounds inside of their metal framework, caught Webbers attention, made their tense limbs and mandibles relax ever so slightly.

“HAL SAYS I HAVE NOTHING IN HERE, THAT IT WAS TAKEN. HAL IS WRONG AND IS LYING TO ME.” Mx. WX78 rose their blank, empty gaze to their multitude of eyes, and there was no expression on their metal face but Webber could almost feel it. The rain water had left trail lines down their metal face, streaks of a lighter sheen. “AM I MISSING SOMETHING?”

Webber hesitated, for a moment, claws tight about Mister Hal and their umbrella, and for a moment they almost did what everyone always wanted them to do and leave.

But they didn't.

Webber shuffled forward, and when Mx. WX78 held out their other hand they gave them their umbrella, going to their knees and curiously looking over their robot friends big barrel chest of metal and rust. Mister Hal was still clutched in their claws, but Mx. WX78 didn't reach for him, so Webber kept him held close to their chest.

They weren't shaking anymore, because this was their friend, but they could hear the harsh grinding in Mx. WX78s chest and the light trembling in their clenched tight hands.

And, this close, they could see that their robot friend had oil falling from their empty eyes, bubbling up and trailing from the cracks and lines of their metal body.

It was the weirdest thing, to hear Mx. WX78s voice crackle, the slight hint of static fuzz filtering through.

“AM I MISSING SOMETHING?” They repeated, quieter, and Webber hesitantly raised a clawed hand and laid it over their robot friends chest, eyes squinting in concentration as their mandibles and spider limbs wiggled.

They could faintly hear the sounds, the machinery inside their friend, and now they could feel it too, vibrations and the dull clunking and creaking, a giant machine working all those small pieces together to make one big thing.

Like the clockworks, they remembered. Like the neighing, wheezy knights and grinding, sheet metal bishops and the big old clunking rooks. Those were always so loud, and talkative too, wheezing noises at each other as they walked around, patrolled, as Webber had been told.

Mister Maxwell liked the clockworks, but no one else did. Once, they remembered when Mister Maxwell came back from the caves with a big, broken looking bishop hopping right behind him. Its big yellow eye had followed them around whenever they approached, the bits and pieces of its exposed face looked like mandibles almost, and the great bulb on its head was broken and busted, lightening up and then flickering dark every once in awhile. Pieces of glass fell off of it sometimes, and flakes of rust, and Mister Maxwell had been trying to fix it back up, even though he didn't remember how.

Webber remembered him being very angry about it all, especially when Miss Wickerbottom had told him, in front of everybody, that it was much too dangerous to allow it to stay in camp, and that it must be stored elsewhere.

Eventually, it had broken down, and something had gone wrong with its head and it had kept trying to fling electric arcs at everyone, even though it couldn't and only hurt itself. Webber had been there when it had first collapsed, a jittered mess of sparks and metal and its big yellow eye, flailing around as it tried to attack everyone, hurt them all with its metal body seizing and shaking on the ground. The light had gone out of it when it had died, when Mister Maxwell had figured out how to open up its chest and had taken out gears and wires and its big glowing dim core, taking a last, silent moment to press his gloved hand over its stiff eye and sigh, and Webber remembered Mister Wilson telling them later that it was just a robot, that it couldn't suffer, and that Mister Maxwell should've just busted in its already cracked skull and reuse its rusted pieces instead of letting it follow him around and buzz to itself uselessly like it had done.

Webber hadn't told Mister Wilson that, sometimes, when Mister Maxwell was reading in his book and they weren't doing anything but sitting and playing with their toys, they'd look over and watch the old machine sway and lean this way and that, great yellow eye falling shut as it hissed steam and odd gear grinding noises, like it was listening to a song only it could hear. Sometimes they'd see its broken pupil look up, all the way up, to the sun, and it would stand still, very still, and they would watch it and wonder what it was thinking.

Wendy told them it was just broken, and broken things did weird things all the time. Like stare at the sun, for a really long time, so long they could almost feel themself going blind, cause the sun was bright and pretty and it made a funny part of them itch and scratch and want to run away, and sometimes they wanted that part of them to run away too, leave, go away forever, so maybe if they stared at the sun for a really, really long time maybe that part of them would stop being Webber and would be something else again, like it was supposed to be.

The clicking and gear turning in Mx. WX78 wasn't hollow, wasn't empty, not at all, Webber decided very suddenly.

It was quieter than they thought it would be, distant, and they knew robots were full of wires and gears and hissing steam, almost too full, and Mx. WX78 wasn't like that at all.

But Mx. WX78 was afraid, of being empty. And, as Webber pulled their claws away and instead looked down at Mister Hal, in all his whispered lying that they couldn't hear right now, they knew they wanted to help Mx. WX78 feel better.

It wasn't Mx. WX78s fault that there wasn't anything there, and that their bestest toy friend in the whole wide world was lying to them.

And it wasn't Webbers fault, because they were Mx. WX78s friend, and they wanted them to feel better and get better, and it was going to be alright now, because Webber knew what they had to say.

“It's all there, Mx. WX78! Mister Hal must be mistaken, or thinking of something else.” They blinked down at the toy, and shook a claw at his square, saddened face. “You shouldn't say mean things to Mx. WX78, Mister Hal! And you shouldn't lie either, that's not what friends do!”

Their robot friend was silent, blank empty gaze looking through them, and the tar oil that helped make their joints move better and made everyone cranky and weird all the time was drying up, leaving black trails down their face and metal body, off coloring to their rusty brown. Their silence almost made Webber worry, but then the robot moved.

Webber scrambled back as Mx. WX78 slowly stood up, mud on their hands and staining their knees as their metal limbs moved, pushed themself up, and a hint of the rain speckled into Webbers puffed up fur as they looked up at their friends metal face.

“YOU ARE RIGHT. HAL IS WRONG.” Steam hissed from their joints, a warm burst of air that ruffled Webbers fur, and Mx. WX78 looked down at them. “I AM RIGHT.”

Webber nodded, spider limbs waving as they clicked and twittered in their throat, and when Mx. WX78 held out their hand, other still holding the umbrella, they handed over Mister Hal.

The robot raised the toy up, looking it in the face, and for the first time since Webber has encountered them today there was flashing light, red and yellowed, and Mx. WX78s face lighted up with their inner lights, blips and flashes.

Webber didn't know what that meant, but they've see Mx. WX78 do that before, a lot of the time too. Even in the rain.

Today must have been a bad day, Webber reasoned to themself.

“...I AM TAKING THIS.” Mx. WX78s voice was short, dulled and monotone, like it was supposed to be, and with that Webbers robot friend tightened their grip about Mister Hal, very, very tightly, then glanced down at them for half a moment and turned on their heel, metal and gears turning and scraping against each other as the robot walked away.

The rain was still just a light drizzle, barely a shower, and Webber puffed up their fur, blinking all their eyes out of sync in mild confusion for a moment, watching their friend go with their umbrella in tow.

Oh, okay.

Webber twittered, a light whistle as their spider limbs raised up to block rain from falling into their eyes, and then suddenly puffed themself up, sudden realization falling upon them in one big, uprising sweep.

“Bye bye, Mx. WX78! Bye bye, Mister Hal! We hope you have a good day!”

They didn't want to be rude, after all! Miss Wickerbottom would be angry with them if she knew they didn't use good manners after helping someone.

Even as they waved after their tall metal friend, cheerfully twittering, the rain continued to fall, light and kinda cold but not too sticky or soggy just yet. They'd have to get to camp quick, or else they'll get all soaked, and Webber didn't want to get sick either!

Getting sick was bad, very bad! No one at camp liked it when they got sick, so they had to make sure it didn't happen, never ever.

With that in mind Webber reorientated themself, figuring out which direction was camp, the opposite way of Mx. WX78 and Mister Hal. They really did hope the both of them had a better day now, even if they had taken Webbers umbrella!

It was kinda sad, that Mx. WX78 was hollow and empty. But they had Mister Hal, so at least they were not alone!

And it wasn't Mx. WX78s fault they were empty anyway. And it wasn't Mister Hals either! It was nobody's fault, and that was okay, because Webber had made sure to help them feel better so now everything was alright.

Webber skipped along, making sure to stomp big stomps in growing puddles, splashing cold waves all about and soaking their fur as they made their way back to camp.

It was nobody's fault, and everything was okay now. Everything was alright with the world again.

***

They didn't sleep in the main camp all that often, because the nests they lived in always had room for them and were always warm and familiar enough, but when they did nap in their own little tent Webber found it a bit uncomfy.

It wasn't all the blankets fault, not the one colorful quilt Miss Wickerbottom had made them one Winter's Eve or the patchy old unsymmetrical blanket Mister Wilson had given them all those autumns ago, and Webber didn't think it was the stuffy air or the warmth or even how small it was, fit just for them, just like it was supposed to be.

...It was quiet, though. They couldn't hear all their friends close by, and they couldn't feel the air move with their presence, and it felt empty and made them feel the ever so slightest alone. And Webber didn't like feeling alone when in camp, surrounded by their human friends.

So, one night, twittering whispered spider songs and lullabies they were trying very hard to remember, Webber finally puffed up their fur, hissed a low, tiny sound that meant they felt a bit irritated, and itched their chitin face as they crawled out of their warm tent, seeking the fire and its wavering light. The darkness outside wasn't bad, and there was no big moon in the sky for them, but the stars were out and about and they felt better, just looking all the way up there.

Sometimes the lights in the sky changed, moved, and sometimes they didn't. Mister Wilson had tried to tell them about constellations, and all the stars names, but he kept losing track of which stars were where and where they'd go in another two days, and then he'd get frustrated and unhappy and Webber would feel bad for making him think about it too much, so they didn't ask him anymore.

Miss Wickerbottom told them that, because of the consistent change and the random way the sky was, learning the stars would be next to useless and a waste of their learning time, that maths and histories were much more important.

Mister Maxwell had shown them the one star that stayed the same, no matter what happened or where they were, because he had put it there all himself. They remembered that he was always happy seeing it, cause he kept thinking that someone would take it away soon but they never did.

Tonight, Webber looked up and almost fell over trying to find it, having to scoot out of their tent fully and pinpoint where, exactly, that little bright light was. It didn't have a name, but they could see it, and they were told it was a forever and ever star, it would never ever EVER die, so they made sure to give it a big spider smile, and wave their limbs up at it too.

A forever ever EVER star must be a lonely star, cause when all its star friends faded away in the morning they'd not come back next night. It would all be new again, and they'd never see their old friends ever never again.

At least, that's what Webber thought. Sometimes it was kinda hard, figuring out what their friends told them about things, and Mister Maxwell says a lot of things that don't make sense to them.

And then would tell them that they'd understand when they got older. But even when that happened, Webber still didn't understand, so maybe that was just the way it was sometimes.

They had decided that that was okay, cause sometimes they knew they said things that didn't make sense to their friends even though they try very, very hard to explain. It was just how things were, and that was just fine.

There was a cold breeze in the air with the sight of the star, so Webber puffed up their fur and skittered closer to the firepit, rubbing their claws through their fur and shivering in the chill. Their tent had been warm, warn enough, but it was still too empty. They'd take the cold over not seeing or hearing their friends.

After all, they never knew when they'd never ever see them again, and they didn't want to miss that too soon, so it was okay. Sleeping can be kinda hard when they had nightmares too, so they'd stay up for tonight instead.

They just hoped they wouldn't get into trouble…

Tonight, however, they were sort of surprised to see a familiar form by the fire. Miss Wickerbottom was sitting on one of the log benches, not even with a book in her lap, and Webber stilled and clicked quietly to themself. She was looking into the fire, and they didn't know what she was looking for but they didn't think she was finding it right now.

Their mandibles and limbs all twitched, itching at their face as their eyes all blinked, out of sync and then in pairs, and Webber wonder if maybe they should just go back to their tent, cause Miss Wickerbottom didn't like it when they stayed up late and they really didn't want to get grounded again.

Getting grounded meant not going to sleep with their spider friends and doing lots of homework and not getting to play with Wendy or Mister Wilson or Mister Maxwell or Miss Willow or Miss Wigfrid or Mister Woodie or even Mister Wolfgang! Not even Mx. WX78 either!

So they really didn't want to get grounded tonight.

But, Miss Wickerbottoms hands were trembling, held together in her lap, and she was frowning and all alone by herself next to the fire, and everyone else was asleep but them, and Webber blinked all their eyes cause her eyes looked shiny and sad.

So Webber didn't go back to their tent, and decided that it would be okay if they got grounded, cause something was wrong and they had to help.

“Miss Wickerbottom? Are you okay?”

When the old woman sniffed, blinked and dipped her head, was when Webber headed over, fiddling their claws together but puffing up their fur to go by her side, clicking and twittering to themself as they waited for her answer.

“Oh, I'm, I'm fine, dear.” She reached into her pocket and drew out a handkerchief, one of the silk ones Webber has seen her make when there was nothing else to do after dinner and everyone was settling down for bed, and they looked to the fire politely as she blew her nose.

They only just remembered the word they needed to say then, straightening up for a moment.

“Gesundheit, Miss Wickerbottom!”

“Yes, thank you.” She sounded awfully distracted, and Webber churred to themself, shifting their weight from one foot to the next, and they had to try really hard to not leave and go to bed in their tent.

Miss Wickerbottom was really strict, and very firm, and also can be really loud and harsh sometimes, and Webber sometimes found themselves not knowing what to do when they got into trouble. She didn't yell at them, but it felt like it all the time, and a lot of those times they just wanted to go hide with their spider nest mates and never ever ever come back to camp ever again.

But cause they were in trouble and not allowed to, they'd hide in their tent and feel scared and angry and confused, until someone came and asked them to come out.

Sometimes it was Wendy, but not a lot, cause Wendy didn't like it when Webber felt like crying, and she told them she didn't have any answers for them so stop asking.

Most of the time it was Mister Wilson, and they never could get the right questions out, even when he promised he had all the right answers. So instead they'd sit with him until they'd hiccup and not be able to stop sobbing and then he'd sit and hold them and tell them that it was alright, sometimes Miss Wickerbottom made him cry too.

But right now, it looked like Miss Wickerbottom herself felt more like crying, and Webber didn't know what to do.

But, even though she was sort mean sometimes and made them cry, Webber knew she was their friend, and, like Mister Wilson always told them, she was just trying to look out for them and do what she thought was best, so they needed to do what they thought was best and help her this time! 

So Webber drew in a deep, steady breath, made themself stop fiddling with their claws cause they were always told that it was distracting and not polite, and made themself sit down next to Miss Wickerbottom on the log bench.

It was silent, and they didn't sit too close but not too far away, and the fire was warm against the chilly air, and they puffed up their fur, drew their mandibles and limbs close, and clasped their hands in their lap, to not wiggle their claws too much or be too overwhelming, cause Miss Wickerbottom called them that once and they didn't want to be that right now, when they were trying to help.

“...It’s okay, Miss Wickerbottom.”

She was sad, and they didn't know why, but everything would get okay in the end, no matter what, so Webber knew they were telling the truth and not lying. Miss Wickerbottom didn't like liars either, so they didn't want to do that either.

They got into trouble once, big big trouble, for lying. They don't really remember what they did, or why, but what they do remember is that they had said it was Wendy's fault, not theirs, when really it was their fault. Or, at least they think it was their fault. Webber doesn't remember anymore.

But they got into such big trouble that they weren't allowed out of camp for a really long time, and they couldn't play with anyone for a really long time, and they had to do so many camp chores, and they remembered being really sad all the time and not liking it one bit.

So Webber tried to not lie anymore. They didn't want to get into trouble like that again.

It...it was kinda scary, sitting next to Miss Wickerbottom this late at night, cause they knew they were going to get into trouble. They weren't supposed to be up this late.

But they'd take it, cause Miss Wickerbottom wasn't feeling good, and they'd take getting into trouble to help her feel better. Their friends shouldn't feel bad like they did sometimes, and Webber would do so many things to make sure they got okay in the end.

Miss Wickerbottom wiped her eyes with her handkerchief, pushed up her glasses for a moment before putting them back and sighing, curling the handkerchief in her wrinkled hands and letting them sit in her lap. Webber let their eyes stay watching her hands, all old and wrinkled and leathery, with the funny veins on them, and they scratched at where they were sure their knuckles would be, feeling chitin and fur and hardened pads instead. 

They wondered, when they got older and bigger, if they got wrinkles and veins too. Maybe they should ask Wendy if they did, next time they got big enough.

Sometimes Wendy got them, but not a lot, and not for long. If she got older for too long and stayed far away from doggy teeth, Wendy would get tall and thin and her voice would change, and Webber would get big too, and they would wonder if she'd get as tall as them.

But then she would get sick, and then a bit later she'd be a kid again. Wendy always got sick, no matter what.

Webber wished she didn't, every single time.

“Child, there is something I must tell you.”

Webber jerked their head up, blinking all their eyes out of sync as their limbs pulled in tight, cause Miss Wickerbottom wasn't looking them in the eye like she usually did when she talked, and she sounded awfully sad and tired.

They knew she had a real bad time trying to fall asleep, and sometimes she didn't sleep for days upon days upon end. When that happened, someone would go out and get a mandrake and make some soup for her, so she could go to sleep, but…

Mandrake soup made Webber feel better, like it was supposed to, but they always got real bad, really long nightmares when they ate it, so they never liked it when someone said they had to have some.

“Did, did you have a nightmare, Miss Wickerbottom?” They felt worried, and realized too late that they had gotten too distracted with their own thoughts.

“Don't interrupt me, dear.” They tried not to flinch, and for the most part made sure they didn't, cause she didn't sound all that angry really, just distracted, and Miss Wickerbottom took a deep, wheezy breath that they could hear sitting so close to her, the rattle in her lungs, and Webber could see that she was shivering a little bit, even with the warm fire right in front of the both of them. “Now listen close, for I have a bit of wisdom to pass on to you.”

They raised their head, quelling their spider twittering as best as they could, and the old woman sniffed again, though this time it wasn't as sad, and she tilted her head so her nose was up, and she still wasn't looking at them but she looked down upon the fire with a look Webber didn't really like all that much.

“Your memory is quite shot, dear, so I don't expect you to remember this. But, some things are better said then never spoken, and I must give these words to someone.”

Webber blinked all their eyes, and very suddenly they realized why Miss Wickerbottoms voice sounded a bit different. 

They wondered if she was even seeing them correctly, cause Miss Wickerbottom wasn't sounding like her normal self, and wasn't looking at them like her normal self, and she was shaking a tiny bit and Webber wondered if they should go get someone.

Miss Wickerbottom wasn't feeling good, not at all, and she was all alone out here and Webber…

Webber sucked in a breath, and made themself stop being so unsure. If Miss Wickerbottom wasn't feeling good, then they'd help! They didn't want her to act like this, or stay this way, when it really wasn't her fault at all, so they'd stay right here and do their very best to make things right again!

“We'll remember, Miss Wickerbottom, we promise!”

Miss Wickerbottom continued on, as if she hadn't heard them at all, and Webber wondered if that was the case.

“Even if it's you I must tell.” She grit her teeth for a moment, and then relaxed down from straightening up, raised her handkerchief to rub at her eyes again, and Webber couldn't help the low twittering in their throat, worry making them lean to see the tears she was wiping away, but even though she was sniffling Miss Wickerbottoms voice was still harsh and tired and not very kind sounding. “Hear me now, child.”

She looked down, at the handkerchief in her hand, and Webber watched as her grip tightened, hands wrinkly and veiny and squeezing the silk tight, and her old voice rasped a moment.

“Never let yourself grow old.”

Webber blinked, all eyes out of sync, and there was a brief moment of silence as they tried to figure out what she meant.

And then Miss Wickerbottom turned her head, finally looked over at them, and Webber fought the urge to shrink back cause her gaze went right through them, eyes glazed and not at all seeing them, seeing someone else.

“It would have been much better had you died long before you came here, dear.” She sniffed again, and her gaze fell, back to her hands as she sat back again, shoulders trembling. “Your place in this world, it is lacking terribly. I suggest you leave it behind, and soon.”

Her voice turned harsh, mean, ugly.

“There is no fitting such a child into a world they do not belong in.”

Webber had their mandibles and limbs pulled close, claws hooked together, and they really, really wanted to go back to their tent. 

They'd not sleep, but they didn't want to be here, right here, anymore. Miss Wickerbottom wasn't doing okay, right now, and it was making them feel not okay either.

All their eyes blinked, out of sync, one after the other, and they drew in a ragged breath, felt a hiccup in their throat, and they didn't really know what Miss Wickerbottom had said, and they knew she didn't either, that it wasn't her fault, that sometimes the things they couldn't see right now made their friends say wrong things, and those wrong things could be bad, very bad things, but it still hurt.

And they didn't know why.

But, what Webber did know, taking a moment to hold their breath and watch their friend tremble by herself, staring into the fire and holding so tightly to her silk handkerchief, was that they had to do something.

They had to help, and they really, really didn't want Miss Wickerbottom to feel like this anymore. She didn't feel good, they reminded themself one more time, and they had to make sure she felt better, right now, right this instant.

So Webber took another steady breath, and made themself stop thinking bad, wrong, scary thoughts, made themself stop thinking of what she said, even though they had promised to not forget it, and slowly scooted back, to stand up a bit aways.

They took slow steps at first, to see if she was really watching them, but Miss Wickerbottom wasn't and with that Webber hurriedly skittered back to their tent.

They dove in, searching with a haste they could feel in their throat, heart loud in their head and feeling more frightened than they've ever felt in a really, really long time, but they made themself stop being afraid, forced themself to not be, and scooped up the quilt in one big, fluffy bundle.

And then they hurried back, doing their best to not let the blanket touch the dirt, and the fire light made all the colors flame more orange and then dull to gray, and up above they caught sight of the one lone bright star, the one that was forever and ever and never, like how Mister Maxwell always says. And they stopped a moment, gaze falling back to look at their friend, hunched up and alone, near the fire, and their limbs and mandibles wiggled, a low chitter of spider sound deep in their chest.

And then Webber walked over to Miss Wickerbottoms silent, trembling form, and very, very carefully wrapped the quilt around her. Some of it brushed against the dirt and grass, but they couldn't help that and instead stepped over the log bench to make sure the blanket got all the way around her.

Miss Wickerbottoms face looked lost, and not as glazed or hazy or mean or even sharp, and when her two eyes met Webbers eight they could see that she did not recognize them.

And they made the tiniest of clicking churring spider sound, an almost tiny whistle, and then Webber hugged her, as tight as they possibly could, the warmth of the fire behind them and the warm quilt bundled between them.

Miss Wickerbottom was bony, and soft too, and that was what old people were like when Webber hugged them. Mister Maxwell was like that, too, but he was thinner and felt brittle, too fragile sometimes, especially when he asked Webber to not hug too hard or strong, but Miss Wickerbottom wasn't Mister Maxwell.

Miss Wickerbottom was bony and sharp and soft and wrinkly, and she smelled like old person, but she was also sturdy and blocky and, after a long, long moment of silence but for the fires little crackling whispers, Webber felt her shift and firm, thin arms rose about them and hugged them back.

The sound from Webbers throat was thin and wavered and almost made them hiccup, almost made the lump in their throat rise too far and make them sob.

But they didn't, cause they felt Miss Wickerbottom tremble and, after a moment, softly start to cry.

Wendy always tells them that crying is bad, and that dumb babies cry all the time, and that she wasn't a dumb baby so she didn't cry. She says, all the time, that she's jealous that Webber couldn't cry real tears anymore, that she wished it never, ever happened to her. That she never had to deal with dumb baby tears ever again.

Webber knew she was wrong though. Crying wasn't bad, not at all, and they knew that very well, especially right now.

Cause crying meant that Miss Wickerbottom was back, and that she was feeling better, that she would feel better, that everything was okay. That she wasn't alone, and Webber was here, and that it was alright, everything was going to be fine again.

Even if they got into trouble with this, at least it was okay again. Everything was okay.

Webber hugged a bit tighter, buried their face into the soft fabric of the quilt, and tried not to think of anything right now, nothing but that Miss Wickerbottom was okay.

Everything was fine, everything was alright. It was going to be okay.


End file.
